Silence is a Flame (Confession)
Common talk betrays the ears and the heart contracts to longing as the play itself brings the aching for the stillness of Grace, that the resonance of the sublime can flow as perfume. Though one is never removed or separate, the wanting engagement of that which is unawakened demands attention to barter and exchange in the field of forgetfulness. Every apparent distraction takes one out of the garden of paradise, and by this is subjected to the grief of apparent duality knowing that all is One and still the heart breaks open. Yet one is always in the garden and all apparent distractions are merely noise like agitated bees that circle until the perfume of silence finds stillness with a taste. Over and over again or so it appears in this moment of now, as time is vanquished with thought and stillness pierces the contraction of sensation and the sensation of contraction, arising without limit as the perceiver dissolves with the notion of the body and the witness itself disappears. The dialogue of dreams is ill with self maintained delusion and staggering to find a cure and remedy to manage all proportions, while only the poetry that is not poetry resounds and harmonizes all the cells of the elemental bodies.
The endless mind that speaks of no mind chanting intellectual masturbation about nondual systems and therapeutic practices strips the flesh off the heart and pays it to the clock of self serving desire and ego. Tempted by the forbidden with belief as ransom, all interests are self centered and pay the price of sacrifice. Whether one worships in the sun, or commits a crime in it, the sun is unaffected. A snake is not poisoned by its own venom. You who speaks of oneness is separate. Liberated from what? It is impossible to know anything about God. It is impossible to know anything but God. There is no evidence of ever having been here amongst this appearance, and when the wind arose the skin came off and it is Awareness alone that saw the threads turn to dust by the reflection of itself as the sun alight as Love. The arc of longing flexes for home to trade the suffering of the separate self, the fictional character of the screen, for the suffering of the scale of the uncontained nondual Presence, this impersonal body aching by the taste and drowning in Grace illuminated beyond proportion and limit. This is not God intoxication, this is the solvent to the intoxication of dreams, the madness of repetition, the fractured human digestive. The nectar is a flame. Silence is a flame. I AM the burning faith that serves this awakened clarity which has no reason. I AM unborn.